


awaken the heart before the coming of the beast

by orphan_account



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, and i refuse to accept her death, i don't know why this is, i just know i have certain headcanons that the dean loves carmilla selfishly and possessively, ignores the final episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3276923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maman saves her again, rescues her from the jaws of death once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	awaken the heart before the coming of the beast

She wakes to darkness, a hand on her bare stomach. She wants to pull away, to shrink into herself. If this is Hell, she does not want to be touched. She would rather walk through its fires alone, suffering as she knows she will in isolation.

Only, she cannot. There is a force on her abdomen pushing her down gently until she is calmed. She knows that touch now, that power hidden behind delicacy and a surety she could never have.

“Stay,” a familiar voice whispers and she finds herself nodding, sinking back into unconsciousness again, the darkness clouding her mind as she struggles not to sink too quickly. “Stay, my beautiful girl.”

She gives in, allowing herself to sleep.

* * *

 

The next time she wakes, it is to soft daylight filtering in through sheer blue curtains, the room transformed into a twilight realm. Maman is next to her, eyes tracing the outline of her face.

“Mother, what…where am I?”

She tries to sit up, to become more comfortable, but the pain in her arm, her back, sears through her and she is forced to remain as she is. A sigh, hands cradling her body and she is eased up with a touch she has long forgotten.

“Le Massif Central, _chère_. I brought you home.”

 _Home_. She has forgotten that she has a home, that Maman has given her everything she has ever needed. It is a strange thought that the mansion should still be home after everything that has happened to her but it is.

There is a certain comfort as she realises the room is hers, the bed one that she has slept in for decades when she is not travelling. Maman’s hand on her also holds that comfort, that familiarity she does not know she craves it until it wraps around her, a serpentine blanket meant to entrap as much as it is to warm.

Maman starts rubbing circles into her skin and she cannot help but purr, leaning into that hand. She misses this, misses the days when it was just the two of them, no other siblings, no one else to interrupt. She wishes that there was something she could do to rewind time but she could not.

“I almost died,” she whispers, eyes closing again. “I impaled you with that damned blade after I killed the Light and still, we’re both alive.”

“You’re not a hero, my love,” Maman returns and she cannot help but agree. She knows her too well, is inside of her very being. “You’re not meant to be a creature of justice and goodness. You know that well.”

She speaks as if she is a child and she might as well be, for all that her false bravado has done. Maman is older, infinitely so, and wiser than she is. She knows the world better than Carmilla ever will, knows the ways in which it can break one’s soul and devour it.

Carmilla acquiesces to her in that moment, to the ways in which Maman is so much more powerful than her. There is something about giving in to her, about the way she takes care of her that puts Carmilla at ease when she knows that she should not be.

“I need to get back,” she tries again, her voice still weak, still shaky. “Laura…I need to get to her.”

Maman chuckles lightly, her hands smoothing Carmilla’s hair as she moves to sit on the bed. Carmilla flinches away from her, away from that touch. It is too light, too gentle. She remembers receiving punishment at such a light touch, fears it more than she fears most things.

Only, Maman does not do more than that, does not touch any other part of her. She simply looks at her, eyes unusually soft, wanting. It breaks her, the way Maman can still look at her like that, can still look at her as if she is everything to her when she knows better.

She knows the truth now, knows not to trust the way Maman looks at her as if she has never failed her. It is all a ruse, kind as it may seem in the moment, and all she wants is to get away, to return to Styria, to Silas and Laura.

She does not try to move. She waits until Maman leaves, waits until she is given at least the illusion of privacy before picking up the phone Maman has left her with. There is a call she needs to make, a promise that needs to be extracted.

“Hello?”

She sighs in relief when the call is answered. She does not know what would have happened if it had not been, does not know what she would have done.

“Mommy Ginger.”

“C-Carmilla?”

She does not stay long, does not explain everything. She does not need to. Perry will understand what needs to be done, the precautions that need to be taken and this call is the most she can do to ensure that they are. Laura’s protection is the only thing she can think about, the only thing that matters.

When she finally hangs up, she lays back down, her body tired, so very tired. She wants to close her eyes, to fall back into the arms of Morpheus once more, but she cannot. Her mind is too active, too full to even make the attempt.

She struggles but she stands, her jaw set as she fights not to give voice to the pain she feels. Maman will hear her, will know what she is doing anyway, but still she tries. She cannot sit still, not anymore.

She needs to move, to do something other than lie there all day. Her fingers itch to hold onto something, to turn a page, bring a glass to her lips, something. She cannot stay in that room.

“You’re not going anywhere until you’re rested.”

She turns, loses her balance. Maman is there in seconds, her arms holding her up, guiding her back to the bed. She allows her to do so, allows her to push her down onto the bed.

“Mother…please.”

“No, beautiful. You need to rest and then we can discuss your future.”

There is a dark gleam in Maman’s eyes, a sparkle that she has come to fear with all her being. She knows that she will pay, that this charade of comfort and peace will end, but she rather it does than to continue on like this.

Hope builds and builds without permission and often, far too often, she has hoped without limits that they would forget past transgressions, return to what they once were. Too many times has this happened and she knows better now.

She knows what she must do and what must never be. Only, she cannot bring herself to kill Maman, not again, and she says this, speaks it into the still air as Maman watches her.

A touch of a hand on her cheek, lips on hers as she cries. Her fingers curl into Maman’s hair, bringing her closer, ever closer. Part of her knows that she should not want this, should not want to feel Mother against her, but she does not care.

She has lived and she has died. Every part of her has known pain, has known what it feels like to have her blood turn to fire. There is nothing in her that has felt less, been less, and she knows now that mortality is foolish to cherish when power, power is within reach of her grasp.

They strip each other, clothes falling to the floor in their haste. The need to feel skin on skin is too much to deny and she nearly rips Mother’s blouse and skirt off of her before pulling her onto the bed.

Mother’s body is on hers now and she feels nothing, is nothing, but pure want and need as she clings to her. Her hands are everywhere, lips on the older woman’s neck as she flips them, her strength returning as she drinks.

The ichor that runs through her is rich, heady, almost like alcohol. She is drunk on the woman beneath her, drunk on desire and lust as they fuck in a filthy, tangled mess. She enters her with three fingers and Mother bites down on her shoulder, hips bucking in time with the rhythm of her hand.

Carmilla wants and wants and this time she takes. She has always submitted, always been subservient to Mother but no more. This is something that she wants, that she needs more than anything and she will be damned if she cannot have it.

Mother is silent as she orgasms but there is something about the lazy smile she gives her, all teeth and mischief and everything she wants and fears, that sends a shiver down her spine. She finds herself on her back, her legs pulled apart and her sex exposed.

A tongue swiping up her slit, playing with her clit and she moans lowly. It is the only sound she is permitted to make, the only sound she is allowed before Mother begins to fuck her in earnest. She reaches down, tangles her fingers in her hair once more, pulls her closer.

She wants more, needs more. This is her addiction, her vice. She is a sinner and this is the altar at which she has prostrated herself so long ago, the idol to whom she has given herself over, body, mind and soul.

She cannot turn back now, cannot stop. She has tasted corruption, has knelt at its feet and offered herself up to the dark once before. She does it again now, her lips stained black from her silent devotion, her body aching with the ecstasy of her dead soul.

She comes over and over again, Mother’s name, her true name that few now know, on her lips. Rare is the occasion on which she is allowed to use it, the moments culled from a sea of missed opportunities and failures few and far between.

“Mircalla,” she says and her name on those lips calls to her. “Mircalla, my sweet girl.”

Tears fall from her eyes as Mother gathers her into her arms, kisses her gently. She is broken, defeated in the best and worst of ways. She can no longer resist but she cannot return, not like this, not so stained that even her body cannot comprehend what she has done.

“Come back to me, my darling. Come back to me.”

Maman is her anchor now, her light in the dark. She can hold on to nothing but her and it hurts so good to realise this, to realise that she has become that which she had once denounced.

“Thank you,” she whispers, though she is not sure why. All she knows is that she needs to stay like this, to stay here in her arms.

Eventually, she begins to fade, lulled by the absolute silence of the room. She knows that she should not feel so comforted, so warmed by Maman but she cannot help herself. Her body remembers too well the ways in which it has been loved, been touched so gently, so lovingly and so it lets itself relax against her will.

“Sleep, Mircalla,” Maman whispers. “The dawn will come soon.”

* * *

 

She wakes to Will staring out of the window, his hands clasped behind his back. It is a rare sight to see him like this, the gentleman he never truly was. She wonders why he is here, how he is here when she knows that Perry had staked him during the battle.

“Mommy dearest wants me to help you out, Kitten,” he says as he turns to her, almost as if he has read her mind. “Says that you’re too weak to help yourself.”

“As if,” she mutters in return. She has no desire for his presence, no need of him at the moment. “Get out of my room, Rat Boy.”

Will sneers at her but does as she asks. He dares not disrespect her, not here. There is too much of Maman in her for him to ever dare to speak out of turn in this place.

She moves over to the armoire and opens it, searches for something to wear. There are gowns and dresses, skirts and elegant blouses. Maman does not indulge her here, not in this place where the Old World remains in the very earth, intruded upon only by their family and no other.

She selects a dark skirt and a white blouse, dresses slowly, carefully. She is still too weak to move as she wishes but Maman’s ichor helps her a little. It is not enough, will never be enough when it intoxicates her, makes her want and want and want, but it will do for now.

When she arrives in Maman’s private drawing room, she finds her lounging on the couch, her honey-coloured hair disarrayed as her eyes trace Carmilla’s figure. She feels small under that gaze, insignificant and yet the only thing in the world worth that bit of acknowledgement.

Maman has always had that skill, has always made her feel like a paradox within her own skin. She hates it, hates the way her body contradicts itself, bowing to her and yet resisting when all she wants to do is stop, stand still.

“You look better, _ma chérie_.”

She nods, sits on the ground beside her as she used to once upon a lifetime ago. Maman threads her fingers through her hair, braids the locks swiftly, neatly. She purrs under the attention, leans back in an attempt to get closer to that touch.

A long time ago it would have been a disgrace just how eager she is for it, how willing she is to give in to such a need, but not now. She has long lost her sense of propriety when it comes to Maman, to what she wants and what she takes from her.

She is hers, is everything that Maman has created for the sole purpose of her own entertainment. She should have known better than to ever step away from that, away from Maman and she has paid the consequences.

Still, she cannot help but feel fragmented, lost to the streams of life without Laura, without Maman. They are merging in her mind, both becoming the one entity controlling her life until she is no longer her own but theirs completely, without exception.

“You are my most precious girl,” Maman says and she nods, closes her eyes.

This is nothing she has not heard before, nothing that she is not used to hearing. Maman always does this, always touches her, compliments her. Oh, there are insults here and there but always, always, there is a delicacy to how she is handled, a subtlety that keeps her in her place more than any show of force ever could.

There are moments when she slips, of course. The coffin was one of them, the darkness binding her, constricting her even inside the cramped confines of the box itself. These are the moments when Maman feels the need to put on a show, to make her an example for everyone else to see.

She knows Maman better than that, possibly better than most who know her. Her rage is quiet, something to be feared in the silence that always accompanies her anger. Her punishments are meant to induce fear, to make her children live in fear of what is to come should they disobey her. The coffin has done this to her but she knows that she has gotten off easily.

A shudder runs through her body at the thought and Maman presses a calming hand at the base of her neck. She suppresses the urge to move away but, even so, she can feel her body stiffen.

“Relax, beautiful. No harm will come to you. You’re safe here.”

“Maman,” she whispers, turning to her. “ _Please_.”

“I know, my darling.”

She nods and allows her head to fall close to Maman, her hands moving to clutch familiar fingers as tears fall from her eyes. It hurts, this tearing feeling within her. She wants Maman so much and yet she hates her for everything she has done, everything she has been forced to become.

Every wicked intention seeps into her bones, breaking her, reshaping her into Maman’s creature over and over again. The longer she sits by her side, the more she can feel herself losing everything that she is, everything that she was.

“You are the glory of the house Karnstein, the shining jewel in my coven,” Maman whispers, her words dripping from her lips like sin. “You were twice born to greatness, my darling, and I will not see you waste that potential any longer.”

She nods, sits straighter as Maman kisses her.

“You are to be my heir, my prodigal daughter returned from her final banishment and you will stay at my side.”

“But-”

Maman silences her with a glance, her eyes steel, cold and hard, as she stares at her. Gone is the seeming warmth that was there before, replaced by something older, meaner.

“You still wish for that girl.”

She does not nod, does not need to. Maman is not asking, only stating the facts.

“Foolish child, how you know so little of the world. However, I suppose I could allow you to keep her, to let her own you if, of course, she becomes mine.”

She recoils at the words, at the very idea of allowing Maman near Laura like that. She knows why, of course, why she reacts this way. Maman knows it too.

“Then again, perhaps I have already lost you to her. Do you even know her lineage? Where her blood comes from?”

She nods, remembering the bitter pill she had been forced to swallow the moment that saccharine taste had hit her tongue. She remembers the way her heart had sunk, the need to get out of that room as quickly as she could.

“She does not want you.”

Her body shakes silently as she acknowledges the truth of those words. Laura had told her to run and she had run, her body moving and moving until she could not move anymore. It was only then that she had decided to return, to go back and protect the girl no matter what.

Now, now she knows better, knows not to expect anything from her. The only person who can love her is Maman. She is the only one who can anchor her firmly in this plane no matter how much she wants to deny it.

Only, she is not sure if she actually believes that, believes the lies Maman spins for her. She knows that Maman is not to be trusted, that she should never let her guard down. She wants to, God how she wants to, and the lies are so enticing, calling for her to believe, but she cannot bring herself to do so.

It would be a betrayal, deep, perilous. It would mean giving up all that she had achieved to give herself over to whatever it was that Maman had in mind for her and forgetting everything that Laura meant. She cannot do that, cannot allow herself to forget.

She stands, walks away from Maman without a word, without fear. Maman knows that she will not leave her, not now when their souls are once again bonded through space and the ephemeral concept of time that is theirs. She will walk away but she can no longer stay away from her as she wants.

* * *

 

The air bites at her skin as she leaves the house, the grass rising up to caress the soles of her bare feet. She inhales deeply, the scent a reminder of better times, happier moments gone by in a life that is no longer hers.

“You’re never going to be the same, you know.”

Her lips curl up and she closes her eyes. The words come without her intending them to but she does not care.

“I doubt I would have ever been able to resist change as much as I wanted to when I met you. And then her.”

Ell’s fingertips ghost across her skin and her breath hitches. She does not know how much time they have left together, how much time there is before Ell disappears from her world completely, but each moment feels like the last. She longs for it to end but she wants it to continue.

She knows that it cannot go on for much longer, knows that Ell will leave her soon enough, too soon. Maman has warned her about this and she steels herself against the hurt, against the pain that this second, final loss will incur but here and now she cannot help herself. She wants more, wants everything.

“No.”

A single word stops her before she can even begin to move and she curses the way Ell still knows her so well. Her shoulders sag, her body droops almost involuntarily.

She does not want this, not the way she has it now, never like this. It is better for Ell to disappear completely, to move on and leave her behind on this wretched earth like so many others had done before and would do again.

She turns away, retreats back to Maman’s patient gaze. Everywhere she goes, she can feel Ell watching her but she chooses to ignore her, to let her wallow in the same loneliness that has plagued her life since Ell had cursed her name, had called her monster and condemned her to the kind of suffering that only exists in dreams now.

Maman’s hands on her are patient, kind and loving as she dresses her soul’s wounds and is that not a question for the ages? Does she even have a soul to hurt?

She posits the question to Maman and she entertains her existential wonderings for a moment and no more. She declares that Carmilla has a soul, that they all do. Only truly soulless monsters cannot feel, cannot love in the way that they both do.

Maman loves her, she knows this. She loves her possessively, wholly and completely with no end to that love. It has ever been a constant in her life, that knowledge and no matter how much she resists, she cannot deny that love.

* * *

 

She wakes that night to the ringing of her phone, Maman sleeping soundly next to her. She breaks from the loose hold on her waist, sits up as she answers. She can hear the other woman’s smile, the way Perry indulges her for a brief moment only to shatter it with her next words.

Maman wakes with a grunt, wraps her arms around her and buries her teeth in her neck. She ends the call quickly, leaning back into her as she tosses the phone back onto the nightstand with a moan.

Mother feels so good against her, her skin warming as she feeds. This is a reminder, she knows, a statement of her ownership over Carmilla, but she does not care.

Mother’s fingers are playing across her skin, moving lower and lower as she drinks. Carmilla can do nothing against it, cannot resist the euphoria that seeps into her body with each second. The moment Mother enters her, fingers fucking her over and over again, she comes.

Her orgasm sends her reeling, her mind sinking into nothingness as she shudders and stiffens, before slumping into the body behind her. Mother smiles against her skin, her fangs retracting as she pulls away, lays her down before pulling her close.

She cuddles closer to her, her body seeking Maman’s warmth as sleep threatens to take her over. Tomorrow, she will give thought to Perry’s words, will start her preparations for her return as her will falters once more. Tomorrow, she will approach Maman with her desire, her need to return to Laura.

Now, though…now she can only lie with her, entangle their fingers as she slips into the land of dreams, Maman’s protection keeping the nightmares away once more.


End file.
